Honestly,

I hate poetry
Because it keeps me up nights
Sweat-stained and wild-eyed.

There is truth in them there lines
To be parsed and plodded fine.

Middlemay

It is ninety-two
tonight in Minnesota.

The pepper plants reach
for heat like wetted clothes,
I long for coke and chunked ice.

It Was Never Really About Perez

This is the last time
I will write about Perez.
No more will I think
of his blood pooled red. Of his
unnatural death. Of mine.

Eulogy

Kentucky meditation:
Bluegrass, cardinal, opaque
Bourbon glass ice-filled

Honeysuckle rosebuds race
A murder of crooked crows

After the Party

Midnight mascara
Juleps mint and saccharin
Struggle swipe and smart

I blame the bossa nova
I blame ten million roses.

Talisman

I find it luckless
Adan Fabian Perez
was not carrying

a doll from Guatemala
to shield him from his worries.

Rhymin' and Stealin'

"four and three and two
and one, and when i'm on the
mic, the suckers run..."

eighties battle rap haikus
from the buddhist mca

1 in 1677

For the moment let's
Forget nearly seventeen
Hundred violent
Deaths occurred on Saturday.

And Sunday. And Monday. And...

Chronicle of a Death Untold

The world unravels
after blue ribbons, whiskey
chasers, and Cuban

cigars.  The rest of the night
blurs to daylight save for one.

I'll Have Another

Last night a middle
aged man was found dead behind
a Derby barn.

There was foul play--of course there was--
and mint juleps and large hats.

Race Day

It's only fitting
that on Cinco de Mayo
the derby winner
was steered by a Mexican
and named I'll Have Another.

No Mas

Tonight the Yankees
will not pitch Mariano
no matter the score.

And MCA won't get no
sleep til Brooklyn anymore.

Off

Tonight I'm misplaced,
soaked in the sweat of early May,
girded by silence,

the Buddha beads wrapped around
my wrist too loose to do good.

Tornado Sirens

Spring hail sounds sharply
The sun slumbers in the west
Eyes survey skyward

May brings wanton violence
To unhurried Midwest towns

The Problem in Leonardo's Basement

Water shortages
in the Middle East, Southeast
Asia, and Northern
Africa make fresh water
terrorism more plausible.

Nineteen Months from Whole Cloth

At eight thirty three
a baby cried. At thirty four
another followed.

Now--nineteen months from whole cloth-- 
you've woven untold tall tales.

Poetry and Politics in American Society: A Call to Arms

Poetry and Politics in American Society

                                    It is difficult

to get the news from poems

            yet men die miserably every day

                                    for lack

of what is found there.

                        --William Carlos Williams

            For over five years, these words from William Carlos Williams have greeted me every time I hunger for a leftover piece of pizza, every time I reach for ice cubes or grab for a cold bottle of beer, every time I stand in front of the refrigerator for minutes on end (door open, mind you) wondering what I can cobble together for dinner.  You see, some five years ago or more, POETRY magazine sent a brochure urging me to purchase a subscription, and these words on a simple teal background struck my wife enough that she tore off the portion with Williams’ words and affixed it to our freezer door.  I’ve often thought his words beautiful.  I’ve often wished that I had written such a sentiment in such a straightforward yet unsentimental way.  I’ve often wondered whether those words were freestanding—a pithy response to an interview question, perhaps—or from a poem where the whole was even greater than the sum of its parts.  But there was always work to be done, there was always a baseball game to watch, always dinner to make.  And so, for over five years I have allowed myself to be content with the knowledge that Williams’ words are beautiful.

Recently, however, I read that Antioch University’s MFA writing program—one of the top five low-residency programs according to Poets and Writers and The Atlantic magazines—distinguishes itself from other programs by incorporating their socially conscious values as an integral part of the writers’ experience. Their website states that “students learn the various roles of the writer in society, discovering how to make a difference on the page, and in the diverse communities where they work and live” (www.antiochla.edu).  Certainly, authors with a penchant for political or social satire are commonplace; however, stating that writers play a particular role in society—that they have a responsibility both when writing their written works and while communing in their communities—rang as revolutionary.  The more I turned the idea over in my mind, the more I was reminded of former New York State governor, Mario Cuomo’s declaration: “You campaign in poetry.  You govern in prose.” 

Suddenly, Williams’ words struck me as much more immediate, desperate, perhaps even resigned.  I paused to consider what he meant when he wrote, “men die miserably every day/for lack/of what is found there” (Williams 19). As I thought about his words in the context of social obligation, political meditation, and a national dialogue, I began to think they were overly saccharine and hyperbolic—but perhaps he is spot on.  Most certainly Williams speaks in metaphors, but what would it be like to live in a society where poetry is part of the lingua franca?  Where poets are relevant outside of academia? Where there is an earnest belief that what is found in poems will sustain us?  While this litany of “what if” questions may seem fanciful, ultimately they lead us to ask the questions that really matter: How is poetry essential to political and social discourse? What are the ramifications of Governor Cuomo’s linguistic bait and switch? And, ultimately, with the gaze of history (hopefully) upon them, what exactly is the poet’s role in American society?

            It is easy to say that creating an age of poetry begins with teaching young people that poetry is valuable—that a consciousness change of this magnitude must begin in our primary, middle, and high schools.  However, my contention is that poetry first needs to become a more obvious part of everyday social and political discourse.  It is only in this type of environment that contemporary American poets can fulfill their obligation to challenge individuals to become better citizens.  The onus here lies with the politicians to learn to govern in poetry and with the poets to learn to engage without.

For Lack of What is Found There

           

            In February of 1985, New York State Governor Mario Cuomo gave a speech at Yale University urging his fellow Democrats to keep moving forward despite the election results in which President Ronald Reagan retained the presidency.  A powerful and persuasive orator with a strong grasp of literary tradition in his own right, Governor Cuomo quoted Galileo and belittled the rise of caricatures in politics.  He decried the effect of labeling politicians as party members and channeled Allen Ginsburg (not in thought, certainly, but in form).  So when he declared, “We campaign in poetry.  But when we’re elected, we’re forced to govern in prose,” there is an understanding that Mr. Cuomo was intentional with his words.  His intentionality only serves to highlight the irony that this quote—perhaps his most famous and most oft repeated—has been perverted to fit into what Samuel Hazo might deem, “the language of economy” (446).

            Before delving into the differences between Mr. Cuomo’s actual words and the version that has been attributed to him, it is important to lay out what is understood.  Most certainly governing requires different skills than campaigning, but that does not in any way imply that the skill sets are mutually exclusive.  In fact, given that a successful campaigner is faced with the demands of governing, it is disturbing to think that the actions demand a completely different vocabulary.  (If that were the case, the political arena would be overfilled with elected officials who only sit office for a single term.)  While the argument most commonly is that the language of campaigning is overwrought with lofty proclamations and gilded language, the problem—and Governor Cuomo knows this too well—is that the language of governance is limiting.  As Hazo states, “It [the language of statement] is not language at its fullest.  Once it has served its purpose, it evaporates.  Such language dominates our public life” (443).  The “language of statement” or “economy” or “governance” is accepted because its face-value is clearly denoted, but that does not get to the heart of the issue.  The crux of the matter is this: the derisive manner in which politicians and political pundits speak of “campaigning in poetry” has led to a distrust of those skilled in rhetoric.

            In order to understand the state of poetry and political speech in America today, perhaps it is best to begin an explication of Mr. Cuomo’s quote focusing on the efficient, economical way his words were ultimately recorded in popular history.  Most often, the statement is repeated as a variation on his theme.  For example, during a debate with then Governor Barack Obama in 2008, Hillary Clinton responded to a particular question with, “You campaign in poetry.  You govern in prose.”  The implication being that Mr. Obama may be cut out for campaigning—with his oratory prowess and intellectual bend—but it is Ms. Clinton who is fit for the responsibility of governing, which requires a much different—more staid—vernacular.  Or, in layman’s terms, it appeared as if Ms. Clinton was saying, “You may be very good at speaking and persuading, Mr. Obama, but you have not yet proven you can govern efficiently and effectively.”

            Unfortunately, Ms. Clinton and myriad others in politics disregard the power of the spoken word to galvanize people.  In his essay, “Poetry and Public Speech,” Samuel Hazo writes that “memorable words have an undying legacy, and they survive the times and places of their origin without difficulty” (442).  Clearly, this is a truism with myriad examples—and, while many of those words may be attributed to poets (think, “Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” from Shakespeare’s Henry V or, “But I have promises to keep/And miles to go before I sleep,” from Frost’s “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening”)—a significant number were spoken by those in public service.  Who can forget Martin Luther King, Jr.’s rousing, “Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!” or John F. Kennedy’s, “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.”?  The truth is that these words retain their life particularly because of the emotions they stir, and that is the power of poetic language.

            The language of politics—especially in the last twenty-five years as Governor Cuomo’s words have reverberated and resurfaced, and, not to any small extent, reshaped the concept of campaigning—however, is not given to poetic dalliance.  Unfortunately, it is quite the opposite; political opportunists have long since cautioned the public to be wary of their golden-tongued counterparts.  What is left are politicians who revel in their ability to “talk straight” to “the common folk” while eschewing poetic metaphors or historical, religious, or literary allusions for fear of alienating their audience.  Or perhaps the political and social landscape of America is even bleaker—perhaps there is no discussion of poetry or use of poetic devices present in the public speech of today because it is deemed unnecessary.  As Hazo writes, “So long as people are perceived in economic terms alone, poetry (and all the other arts, for that matter) will be regarded as ornamental, irrelevant, or simply dispensable” (447). 

            In my opinion, however, what is most interesting about Mr. Cuomo’s quote is what James Joyce would refer to as the gnomon, or the part which is removed or missing.  In Euclidean geometry, the gnomon is the figure formed by removing a similar parallelogram from the corner of a larger parallelogram; it is necessary to know the dimensions of the excised parallelogram in order to know the larger, similar parallelogram (Euclid 371).  Joyce was obsessed with Euclid’s gnomon, with the idea that it was necessary to understand the absent part—or what was left unsaid—in order to fully grasp the motives of a character and the meaning of a story.  In this case, it is the words that have been dropped from Mr. Cuomo’s quote that shed the most light on the problems poetry and politics face in their desire to become bedfellows. 

            When the Governor gave his speech, he told the audience at Yale, “We campaign in poetry, but when we’re elected, we’re forced to govern in prose,” yet, when the words are spoken in popular refrains and collective memory, they ring more as, “You campaign in poetry. You govern in prose.”  Gone entirely is the shift from the active voice of “campaign” to the passive voice of “are elected,” and, particularly, “are forced.”  And this makes good sense for those who choose to bastardize Mr. Cuomo’s quote; the passive voice does not work in governance.  Passivity is either weakness or indecision, and there is an implicit understanding that those in politics and public life do not hesitate, they do not flinch.  However, this new presentation obfuscates the Governor’s (or, as Hazo would argue, the human beings’) inclination towards poetry.  Stating that politicians “are forced to govern in prose” implies that these politicians, if allowed their freedom, would choose another way to govern.  Specifically, given the first clause, it implies that if presented the opportunity, politicians would govern in poetry. 

            Without question, many of them would; however, Mr. Cuomo continues by inquiring whether there is any way “to bridge the yawning credibility gap between what we promise [poetry] and how we perform [governance]?”  He ultimately concludes that yes, it is possible to bridge this gap, but only by “stating as directly and concisely—over and over again—the principles that shape your politics, that are its soul” (Cuomo).  At first it is hard to believe that this conclusion is proffered by a man who alliterates “Progressive Pragmatism” and employs metaphors such as “the Procrustean bed of reality”—not to mention one who titles his speech after Galileo’s words (“E pur si muove”) before the Inquisition (Cuomo).   The Governor’s presentation is ensconced in poetry—or at least poetic language and poetic devices—even as he reluctantly determines that economy is the language of solid governance.  And—much like Galileo forced to deny that the earth revolves around the sun—Mr. Cuomo seems to offer up his own “But still it moves,” when he speaks to the “soul” of one’s political beliefs.

            As Hazo maintains, “If the language of economy becomes the working vocabulary of our lives, it can leave out many of those elements that sustain us as human beings” (446). While Hazo is specifically talking about the culture of consumerism and finance, there is certainly an implied double entendre when he uses the phrase, “language of economy.”  The language of business and politics is a language of punctiliousness.  In other words, the language of economy and governance is economical.  The question then is—as William Carlos Williams, Samuel Hazo, and Mario Cuomo might ask—what is the cost of living in a social and political environment where economy is the working language?  What effect does this mindset have on the generations of citizens raised in today’s American society?

            There are certainly advantages to Mr. Cuomo’s altered quote—even from a linguistic point of view.  It has a sense of parallelism that his original statement lacks.  It has rhythm and is well-balanced.  It is sound-bite ready, connecting two pithy declarative clauses.  However, I would argue that the reshaped quote—more specifically the mentality behind it—has had a degenerative effect on the acceptability of poetic rhetoric in public speech.  The restyled quote offered as Mr. Cuomo’s belittles poetry; it presents it as the patter of charlatans.  Though the Governor certainly understood the difference between “political theater” and the “drab, harsh, even draconian” language of statutes, it most certainly was not his intent to paint poetry in such a poor light (Cuomo).  Nevertheless, for the past twenty-five years as “his” quote has surfaced time and again, the implication is that those who are gifted orators are performing a philological sleight of hand.  Perhaps this is why the American public largely keeps poetry at arm’s length and can be keenly suspicious of academia.  It may well also be why, as David Biespiel surmises, “American poetry and America’s poets remain amazingly inconsequential to the rest of the nation’s civic, democratic, political, and public life” (151).  Once again we are left to look to the gnomon—in this case poetry and the American poet—in order to understand the Euclidean parallelogram that is American politics, governance, and society.

But Still it Moves

            Conveniently, we find ourselves back at the beginning again, where William Carlos Williams’ words are read with a whole new urgency when viewed through the lens of Joyce’s concept of the gnomon.  Now, it is impossible to read the lines, “yet men die every day/for lack/of what is found there,” without thinking about what it is precisely that is present inside poetry which men die for lack thereof (19).  At the same time, however, it does not require an overwhelming intellect to determine what Williams’ claims men lack.  It is an embracing of things which are beautiful, an appreciation of ornament.  It is an understanding that dramatic photographs, tender melodies, and well-crafted words enhance lives that we live in ways that economic theories and zoning laws cannot.  Truly, however, it runs deeper than that.  Increasingly there is a tacit acceptance that poetry—in all its forms and with the understanding that poetry itself is employed as a metaphor—is superfluous or, in the case of the altered Cuomo quote, an impediment to a successful existence.  Williams’ tercet highlights the same argument proffered by Samuel Hazo, and it is—at least subconsciously, I would argue—what impels the Governor to whisper his own, “But still it moves.”  

            Poetry and politicians have a tenuous relationship at best in today’s public arena, and while it is easy to rest blame on the shoulders of the politicians who shun the arts and converse in exactitudes, poets are just as guilty for the near-complete absence of poetry in our public speech.  There have been programs such as the now-defunct Poetry in Motion, which postered New York City subway cars with snippets of poems interspersed alongside advertisements for multi-lingual lawyers and night courses at City College, and Dave Eggers’ 826 National program, which is devoted to inspiring teenagers and younger children to delve into the world of writing.  President Barack Obama—a politician of the highest visibility—reintroduced the concept of an inauguration poem (the first since Bill Clinton took office, incidentally) when he invited Elizabeth Alexander to read her poem, “Praise Song for the Day.”  However, the landscape of American civic discourse is decidedly bereft of poetry in large part due to what poet David Biespiel describes in his essay, “This Land is Our Land,” as the “American poets’ intractable and often disdainful disinterest in participating in the public political arena outside the realm of poetry” (152). 

            The problem, it appears, is that American poets have reveled in the notion of being marginalized so much that they have completed what amounts to a self-fulfilling prophecy where poetry has become “simply another industry of hermetic self-specialization” (Biespiel 152).  As they sit alone in their rooms writing sestinas and perfecting enjambment, they have lost sight of their role in the world around them—they have lost sight of their tradition as part of a world-wide collective of poets throughout the centuries who act as the barometer of social and political events.  Instead, they “favor a definition of themselves in the cultural firmament as outsiders, lone wolves, individualists, and displaced persons” (Biespiel 153).  Their poetry has increasingly focused inward to the personal human experience as it relates to the experience of others, and that, in and of itself, is no trivial task.  To be sure, it is not so much that a particular poet might favor writing that is devoid of political insinuation or carefully weighed observations of the social climate at home and abroad.  The concern is that these same poets—whose voice carries a certain authority simply from having the epithetical “poet” attached to their name—do not take the opportunity to address the inequities they see or work to engage the younger generations in a dialogue about the importance of poetry in their lives if the latter wishes to “die at peace in [their] bed” (Williams 19). 

            This is the gnomon to the political parallelogram: it is the poets, and, more specifically, the poetry that has been removed from our civic life.  It is also the piece that needs to be understood and embraced in order for the lives of the American citizenry to show any discernible intellectual and emotional improvement.  The absence of a poetic voice in American public discourse creates a hole that is not easily filled; however, with simply a cursory glance at the current state of poetry in society, “you quickly conclude that the capacity for poets to connect to audiences from more than some micro-segment of American life is fatally imperiled” (Biespiel 154).  The very fact that Biespiel describes poetry as affecting a “micro-segment of American life” indicates a fall from grace that poets of bygone eras might not have foreseen.   Poets (and other artists) are responsible for adding color to the black and white; it is their job to help the public aspire for something more inspirational, more meaningful, more ethereal.  Without their active presence in the continuing social and political dialogue, the language of economy—and with it the burgeoning idea that poetry (and any other art form) is unessential—will dominate.

            For that reason it is essential for America’s poets to come out of their writing dens and attempt to occupy the citizenry with poetry, or, at the very least, an understanding of the value of poetic language in public discourse.  They need to make a conscious effort to make themselves—if not always their work—more accessible to the layman.  Perhaps some would argue that this approach is akin to “selling out,” but the state of poetry in the United States is in dire straits; it is an art form on the brink of death.  In a poetic environment such as this, with poets not even willing to sit as close as the sidelines to weigh in on social and political matters, “for an American poet to be something like a subversive today would mean not pushing further inward into the huddles of poetry, but the opposite.  The poet who engages democratic dialogue and political life is the renegade” (Biespiel 155).  America was built on the backs of renegades and outlaws, and, to this day, those who buck trends garner the most attention and acknowledgement in our society.  While this approach to engagement may be viewed as affected shtick or contrived artifice, this should not, and, most likely would not, diminish the impact a poet’s missives might have.  

            The fact is that “Poets are actually uniquely suited and retain a special cultural gravitas to speak publicly and morally about human aspirations” (Biespiel 157).  They have been granted this stature since the days of Homer, and nothing that has happened throughout the course of history has diminished the perception of poets as individuals gifted with an ability for clear thinking and lofty idealism.  Nothing that is until the bastardized words of former-Governor Cuomo circulated through the arena of American political discourse.  Every time a politician derides poetry by implying it is the language of shysters and instead espouses the commonplace language of statutory prose, poets are forced to work that much harder to gain acceptance and recognition in our society.  When Ms. Clinton—and numerous other politicians—intimates that her political opponent’s gifted speech is all that he has going for him, she is not solely questioning his inability to govern.  Anyone who is listening recognizes the derisive way the idea of “campaigning in poetry” is presented—not to mention that in this circumstance poetry is the language of “the other,” the opponent, the one who needs to be defeated.  Poetry is the language of creativity and imagination; economy is the language of the tried and true.  It is easy to see why the language of economy might win out. 

            The irony here is that “American civic life needs an honest broker, one who possesses the poet’s core values of illumination, imagination, reflection, and sincerity” (Biespiel 157).  And, while certainly there are politicians out there who can play the role of “honest broker,” the political system may be too fractured and bi-partisan for and elected official to play this crucial role.  In that case, Biespiel’s argument becomes even sounder, and it becomes more vital for poets and other artists to engage in this national dialogue.  However, the “special cultural gravitas” granted poets is predicated upon the fact that people think you have to be uniquely intelligent to understand poetry (therefore you need to be even more intelligent to write it), and poets cannot hope to be heard if they do not step outside their “industry of hermetic self-speculation” (Biespiel 157, 152). 

            The situation may be dire—at least for the future of poets (and the “life” that exists in poems)—but it is not unfixable.  Hip-hop artists have opened a dialogue on race and class issues in America (e.g., Kanye West proclaiming George Bush doesn’t care about black people and Jay-Z supporting the Occupy Wall Street protestors), and they, as practitioners of a “fringe art,” do not have nearly the prestige of traditional poets.  While their arguments may at times be specious and ill-conceived, they are willing to stand up and engage in the conversation and challenge the dominant ideas.  That, in turn, has brought them attention and name recognition, and with that comes an increased investigation into their art.  Poets can learn a lot from their hip-hop counterparts simply by following this model.  They already have the benefit of legitimacy not typically afforded those in the hip-hop community.  Now it is time for them to “speak outside of the chiseled monuments of poems and distinct aesthetic debates directly to matters beyond memory, private reclamation, and linguistic chop-chop” (Biespiel 157).  If this happens, if poet’s adjust their scope “beyond the essential concern for writing poems…[to] include public participation in the life of the Republic,” America’s citizenry will stand up, take notice, and—most importantly—pick up a book of their poetry (Biespiel 158).   

           

With the Eyes of Angels

            In his introduction to Allen Ginsburg’s book of poetry, Howl and Other Poems, William Carlos Williams writes, “We are blind and live our blind lives out in blindness.  Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of the angels” (7).  David Biespiel echoes this sentiment when he writes, “The function of the poet may be to mythologize experience, but another function is to bring a capacity for insight—including spiritual insight—into contact with the political conditions of existence” (158).  Indeed, Samuel Hazo supports this same argument when he writes that “poets can make us aware—feelingly—of what matters and what does not; and in their ‘craft or art’ they will confirm that truth will always outlive lies in the same way that love will always outlive death” (451).  All three men recognize the important role that poet’s should play in society, and all three agree that fulfillment of this role is exactly what is missing in American civic discourse. 

            Without poets, poetry, and poetic language, any attempt to revisit William Carlos Williams’ poem, “Asphodel, that Greeny Flower,” and not determine happiness to be a desperate venture is fruitless.  Here are the last six tercets of the first section of Williams’ poem, sandwiched in the middle are the words that have spent the last five years hanging heedless on my refrigerator door: 

                                              My heart rouses

                                                             thinking to bring you news

                                                                             of something

                                              that concerns you

                                                             and concerns many men.  Look at

                                                                             what passes for the new.

                                              You will not find it there but in

                                                             despised poems.

                                                                             It is difficult

                                              to get the news from poems

                                                             yet men die miserably every day

                                                                             for lack

                                              of what is found there.

                                                             Hear me out

                                                                             for I too am concerned

                                              and every man

                                                             who wants to die at peace in his bed

                                                                             besides.

Without an acceptance of poetry and poetic inclination in the civic engagement of American citizens, Williams’ last sentence means nothing—it refers to no one.  The speaker’s concern is a society and a culture, not to mention a news source, where what is found in poetry (e.g., beauty, love, challenge, honest dialogue) is missing.  That is the gnomon: the absence of poetry creates for the speaker (and Hazo, and Biespiel, and Cuomo) a void that needs to be understood—indeed, needs to be filled—in order for life to be worth living.

              

Works Cited 

Biespiel, David. "This Land is Our Land." Poetry 196.2 (2010): 151. Web.

Cuomo, Mario. “E pur si muove.” Chubb Fellowship lecture. Yale University, New Haven. 15 Feb. 1985.

Euclid. The Thirteen Books of Euclid’s Elements, Vol. 1. Trans. Sir Thomas Little Heath  

and Johan Ludvig Heiberg. Cambridge: University Press, 1908.

Ginsburg, Allen. Howl and Other Poems. San Francisco: City Lights Publishers, 2001.

Hazo, Samuel. "Poetry and Public Speech." The Sewanee Review 116.3 (2008): 442. Web. 

Williams, William Carlos. Asphodel, That Greeny Flower and Other Love Poems. New York: New Direction Books, 1994.

From Iceland with Love (part 2)

Today Jerry West will go to see a doctor in Minneapolis.  He will have to say, Yes, I know who Jerry West is, and, No. No relation.  He will also have to say, I played basketball as a junior in high school, but I wasn’t any good, and, Actually, I always preferred baseball to basketball anyway. Before all that happens, the CHECK ENGINE light will illuminate on his dashboard.  Before that, he will throw the television remote against the floorboard heaters with enough force that the back of the remote will fly off and the batteries will be ejected.

In short, he will no longer be able to convince Laura that going to see the doctor in Minneapolis is okay.  But right now it is just past midnight and he is trying to read Into Thin Air in bed without the light from the lamp bothering Laura.  He knows he is a decade behind the curve with this one; his colleagues have all told him so.  If he were to be terribly honest, he would admit that he only purchased it because he was tired of feigning interest in golf.

His boss and some other colleagues were always talking about fades and slices, draws and eagles.  Jerry knew nothing about these things.  In fact, he had only swung a golf club a handful of times.  He hated the game, and he had a set of unused women’s golf clubs in his home office to prove it.  So when the topic of mountaineering came up last week at lunch, he knew he had found his in.  He could impress them all with various minutia about the disaster on Everest; he could point out all the ways—in hindsight—they went wrong.  But the only thing he could think about as he read about the hypothermia, the dizzying effects of the high-altitude, and frost-bite that works its way through the sturdiest boots and heartiest wind-proof jackets and mess tents—the only thing at all, that came to his mind as he lay in his bed listening to Laura gently snore beside him—was how fucking stupid an idea it was to try to climb a mountain that juts five miles into the clouds.  In Nepal.

It began to piss him off, and he put the book down.  Turned out the light.  He knew tomorrow (he thought of it as tomorrow because he had yet to fall asleep, but it was really today) would not go well.  He didn’t know yet about the television remote or the CHECK ENGINE light, but, of course, he knew about the doctor’s appointment in Minneapolis, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.  And it couldn’t be rescheduled.  He turned on the fan and pulled the covers up to his chin.

Jerry?

Huh?

I love you.

I love you, too.

Do you need to have the fan on?

It’s not blowing on you.  Why does it matter?

I can’t find my earplugs.  The fan makes too much noise and I can’t sleep as it is.  First with the light.  Now the fan.

You know I can’t sleep without the fan on.

Fine. But now I’m not going to sleep and I think I’m getting sick as it is.  It’s fine.

Silence.  (In the silence, Jerry thought about the schedule he needed to finish for work to make sure that there was adequate coverage for the upcoming weeks.  No matter how he worked the schedule people were bound to bitch about having to put in a few extra hours.  Lying in bed, he didn’t have to act like this didn’t bother him.  He told himself he would take extra care to think about which time slots fit worked best for each person.  He would be proactive.

He thought about the chili he made that evening.  Even though he had ground the dried chili peppers himself in the coffee grinder, the chili didn’t have any kick.  He wondered how he could get the right balance of heat next time.  Then he remembered some of the recipes called for chocolate. That wouldn’t provide the heat, but it was certainly something to try to deepen the flavor.

He thought about the home run Rivera gave up in the top of the eighth inning.  Grand slam.  Only the second he had given up in his career.  And he had already walked in a run, too.  What was he doing in that game anyway?  They had the lead and Joba had loaded the bases, but it was a game in mid-May.  Why didn’t Girardi let Joba work out of the jam he had created?  Jerry thought about the fact that he knew the ball was gone from the sound Kubel’s bat made when he made contact.  No doubt about it.  Rivera knew, too.

He thought about his meeting with the Faribo townspeople tomorrow [today].  What an inconvenience it was that he had to go all the way up to Minneapolis for a 7:45 am appointment only to turn around and rush back.  And for what?  So he could sit and listen to the businessmen and businesswomen of Faribo heap praise on Harry Brown’s for selling x number of cars in the past 50 years?  So he could eat warm potato salad and drink warm lemonade in a banquet hall full of professional bullshitters?)

Jerry probably would have gone on thinking a lot of other things, but he was interrupted by what Laura had been thinking during the silence.  He wasn’t a mind-reader.  Not even close.  He would not have given a second thought about what Laura was thinking during the silence had she not spoken.  He wasn’t trying to be rude.  He wasn’t ignoring her at all, really.  He thought their conversation was over when she said, It's fine.

From Iceland with Love (part 1)

Haldor had just gently swiped the paintbrush over the last remnants of graffiti covering his storefront sign, wiped the brush clean on the paint can, and capped the half-empty touch-up can tight.  He did not, contrary to the graffito that frequently appeared on his business, “HANDLE COCK ALL DAY,” though he could understand where the misconception came from.  It was a hazard of his profession, and he chalked it up as such.  Someday though, he would earn the respect of his new neighbors.  Someday, the uncultured rabble of Husavik would quit the spray paint and, perhaps, bring him a steaming cup of coffee and bid him good morning.

It was beginning to get to him.  Not so much the fact that he had to spend his morning painting over fresh statements on the hanging sign or, worse, scrubbing the words from the stone monument near the street.  He didn’t really mind having to perform these tasks every morning.  They gave him something to do; they gave him purpose.  After all, there wasn’t always a whole hell of a lot of work that had to be done to keep the museum presentable.

He had long since categorized and catalogued all of the specimens that adorned the shelves.  He had meticulously handwritten the descriptions, often including not only the genus and species but the method of acquisition and, more often than not, an anecdote or two about either the specimen itself or the donor gracious enough to gift these valuable pieces to a fledgling museum on the north coast of Iceland.  Truth be told, the bulk of the collection, and all of the laminated description signs, wired 3-ring notebook indices, and framed letters signed with American names willing to make post-mortem donations, came with him in a moving truck when he relocated from Reykjavík six months earlier.

All he had to do once he arrived at the decision to plant himself in Husavik (a decision based more on the fact that he had almost circumnavigated the Ring Road) was rent studio space and decide upon a layout, both of which he accomplished relatively quickly.  The place looked great; it was exactly the way he wanted it inside—the newer most intriguing specimens placed strategically near the entrance to attract passersby.  The swinging sign he brought from his old location in Reykjavik required a little effort to hang, and, of course, the stone sculpture needed to be placed properly—he though of it like the equivalent of a blinking neon sign—in order to be successful.

With all of that accomplished within the first week, he was ready to open the doors to the public much sooner than he anticipated.  And he didn’t anticipate business to be this slow.  So he knew damn well it wasn’t the fact that he had to repaint or rebuff for a few hours every morning when he strolled to work from the room he rented behind the Anglican church just off the main road.  Those actions became a welcomed distraction.  A minor inconvenience that served to give his life meaning.  What bothered him was the graffiti artists’ utter lack of originality.

Sure, the culprits had started off strong: “Haldor’s Handjob Habites,” had been his personal favorite, more for the strange linguistic joy he got from the odd mixture of his decidedly Icelandic name juxtaposed with a strange American English colloquialism juxtaposed with a bastardization of French he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around.  Did the hoodlums think they were calling his museum a house of hand jobs? Wasn’t habiter French for “lives”?  He guessed he could see their meaning.

He had since seen them all.  All of the derogatory terms and phrases these greenhorns with a penchant for red spray paint could conjure:

FAG

FAGGOT

FAGBANGER

QUEER

QUEERIE

QUEERBALL

QUEEN HALDOR’S MAGICAL COCKPORIUM (he did admire the effort, here)

WINK

WINKY

WANKER

COCK GOBLER

COCK HANDLER

            Etcetera, etcetera, until the whole lexicon of pornographic euphemisms ran dry.  After nearly a month of new and sometimes relatively witty slander appearing every morning, the monsters decided on a simple sentence that had been repeated each morning for the last four and a half months:

            HALDOR HANDLES COCK ALL DAY.

            There was never an exclamation point.  They never forgot to include his name.  There was never a word misspelled or altered in any way.  At some point he began to think that the miscreants were washing off the paint he applied fresh each morning, but that was impossible.  The paint was always dry before he closed up each night.  As far as he could see, the perps made a decision to repeat that phrase ad nauseum until they ran out of red paint.  

It’s as if the bastards knew this would irk him more.